Literary pretendings, off-the-cuff insights and the occasional rant.

No Good Samaritans...

Years ago, while driving home from my first post-college job, I happened to blow out a tire making an ill-advised u-turn in Highland Park, an affluent suburb north of Chicago. I was just able to pull the car into a self-service gas station at the corner of U.S. 41 and Route 22, and set about changing the tire. The car was already six years old at the time, and my college-era budget had left me with little cash for maintenance. I quickly discovered, to my chagrin, that six years of sitting outdoors had left the lugnuts securely rusted in place. They simply would not budge, no matter how I threw my weight into the lug wrench.

No problem, I figured. There were plenty of cars coming in and out of the gas station. Somebody would stop to help me. Car after car, BMW after Mercedes, pulled into the station. Every driver, undoubtedly unimpressed by my 1982 Chevy Cavalier and sensing that I was just passing through town, made only the briefest glance of indifference as they drove by and proceeded on their way.

After twenty minutes of this, I gave up and headed towards the pay phone to call my auto club's road service. On the way, I noticed a gasoline tanker truck idling, refilling the station's tanks. The driver was a large, burly man who would have been even more lowly-regarded by the locals than I was, had they bothered noticing him at all. At least I was wearing a suit. He was clearly not from the area. I decided to give it a shot.

"Excuse me," I said hopefully. "I've got a flat tire over there. Do you think you could give me a hand?"

"You've got a flat? Sure, I'll help you out," he replied amiably.

He strolled over to my car and picked up the wrench, and with the easiest twist of his hefty forearm loosened the first rusted lugnut. He quickly loosened the others in mere seconds, without expending even a single drop of sweat. He handed me back the wrench.